


seeking silence

by melonpaan



Series: the monk and her grasshopper [1]
Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII (Video Game 1997), Final Fantasy VII Remake (Video Game 2020)
Genre: AU, F/M, Healing smut???, Plot Some Plot, Vague mentions of violence and death, broken people finding each other, hurt/comfort smut?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-14 17:55:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29546169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melonpaan/pseuds/melonpaan
Summary: AU. Her name is Tifa, the sole proprietor of the Lockhart Dojo. And she saved his life. She explains that last part to him casually, as if it’s something anyone would do, find a stranger battered and barely breathing in the middle of the forest, bring him into her home and back to life.But Zack won't get better if he doesn't try. (And Tifa's worth trying for.)
Relationships: Zack Fair/Tifa Lockhart
Series: the monk and her grasshopper [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2173566
Comments: 8
Kudos: 21





	seeking silence

**Author's Note:**

> Me, before Remake: I can’t write smut, but I enjoy the occasional fic!  
> Me, after Remake: I can’t write smut, but _I will read everything_.  
> Me, after Discord: *wakes up one morning and vomits 4K of smut in a fever dream of a day*
> 
> I still don’t even remember _writing_ most of this, but at least it’s edited here you go hope you enjoy???
> 
> ~~Q: How many people does it take to make a rotten melon write smut?~~

The hiss of metal and the dull thump of bodies hitting the ground, one by one by one they fall. 

_Oh?_

Bloodspray smeared across his eyes, the taste of iron and bile crawling up the back of his throat.

_Can you hear me?_

His friend dying, bleeding out, clutching desperately at his ankle and _please, don’t let them take me don’t let them take medon’t_ — 

_Are you in there?_

Smoke spiraling up toward a burnt orange sky, a great inferno hurtling toward them, flames licking his skin, it hurts to move, breathe _Zack, please—_

His sword sinking into the earth, the weight of his sins, a twisted, howling, raging scream from the deepest pits of his soul echoing, echoing— 

_Will you survive?_

Ashes, ashes. 

_Come on now._

Endless darkness, then a gleam of red and he screams _chokes_ but can hear nothing over the raging inferno—blinking warm red eyes narrowed in concentration, lips, lucious and parted, a twinkle of silver. A face.

A woman. 

Tingling warmth on the top of his head, against his throat, winding through every muscle fiber, settling deep, blessed numbness into his weary bones. The screaming in his head doesn’t stop, can never stop, echoing echoing _ashes ashes_ but—then there is sunlight, there is peace, gently blooming over his heart.

“You were a swordsman, yes?” 

He cannot speak over the voices in his head. 

“Well, perhaps here you can learn to be just a man.” 

And darkness again.

*

He wakes in fits and snatches, gasping for breath, clawing at the air, and every time he does the darkness recedes just a little more. Fingertips trailing warmth over his chest. Eyes brimming vibrant red. A mouth so soft, so pink, _You’ll be okay, you’ll be all right, hang on, hang on, survive_. A single silver teardrop.

 _Wake up, wake up now_. 

A smile so radiant it puts the sun to shame. 

“Welcome back to the living, Zack Fair.”

*

Her name is Tifa, the sole proprietor of the Lockhart Dojo. And she saved his life. She explains that last part to him casually, as if it’s something anyone would do, find a stranger battered and barely breathing in the middle of the forest, bring him into her home and back to life. No big deal.

_And, how did she save his life?_

“Chakra,” she explains, after spoonfeeding him a chicken porridge so rib-stickingly delicious, she promises seconds with a tiny curl of her lips, but after. She sets the empty bowl aside and quickly undoes the tie from his robe, fanning it out so that his chest is laid bare beneath her. It unnerved him, the first few times. Skin, patches of blistering pink, raw flesh newly formed _ashes, ashes_. Scars, too many to count _one by one by one_ —a reminder of his sins, his failures. But—she never bats an eyelash, simply spreads her hands over his skin and lets soft, glowing, healing energy sink into his limbs. Tifa’s chakra is like sunlight flooding through his veins, igniting every nerve, a rush of serotonin that makes him feel light-headed and safe and lovely—maybe even loved. He tries not to dwell too much on that last feeling, even though his heart near hums into her touch. 

After an entire week he can flex his fingers and Tifa smiles as radiantly as his first memory of her. His only regret is that it means she expects him to start feeding himself.

_And, why did she save his life?_

She blinks. “Do you not think you’re worth saving?”

He doesn’t have an answer to that. 

_And, how did she know his name?_

“You had only two things I could salvage when I found you. The sword.” The rusted, stained blade of metal and steel resting against the wall. “And this handkerchief.” It’s faded pink and soft, smells faintly fragranced with soap when she presses it into his hands. It’s stained with blood that she wasn’t able to wash clean, no matter how much she tried. 

Stitched clumsily onto the corner of the fabric is his name: Zack Fair. 

_And, the kids?_

His legs take longer to heal, so he’s bedridden a few weeks after he’s able to sit up and eat or read on his own. Tifa brings him every meal, which is usually followed by a conversation about whatever he’ll ask of her, whatever she’ll answer, as her chakra threads through his still broken body.

Then, one day, a curious little head pops in. Brown hair plaited and tied off with a bow, large, looming hazel eyes, pudgy child cheeks. “Tifa told me to bring your food,” she whispers shyly, but seems to open up when he shoots her a friendly smile. Her name is Marlene, and she ends up staying the entire time he eats, swinging her legs off of Tifa’s normal chair as she tells him all about Dojo life, her friends, _Tifa._

“I think Tifa likes you,” Marlene says cheerfully, before covering her hands with her mouth, looking instantly chagrined. 

“Let’s hope so.” He waggles his eyebrows. “I’ve got nowhere else to go.”

But his little joke seems to misfire, and instead of making her feel better, her eyebrows instantly knit and she tosses her arms tightly around his shoulders. He doesn’t quite know how to respond to that, but still, gently returns her sweet embrace.

When Tifa returns later that night, hands tingling against his thigh, he asks, “Are they yours?” 

“Hm?”

“Marlene and her friends.” 

“They are, now.” Her eyes flash, just for a second. “They have nowhere else to go.” _One by one and ashes, ashes._ “Come spring, the Dojo will be full of students again, though,” Tifa carries on, tender expression quickly packed away, locked behind a casual smile. “You can also stay, if you’d like…”

_And, Tifa?_

He owes her his life, his light, his savior.

“Don’t call me that,” she huffs, though her lips are quirked at the corners. “And don’t call me angel, or goddess, or anything of the sort, either. Just Tifa, is fine.”

Tifa _is_ fine. Beautiful, graceful, humble, too. And so hardworking. When the grass begins to grow thick and green again, and the Dojo is alive with students, she does all the teaching, all the cooking, all the cleaning, everything. 

So he tries to make himself useful where he can, puts his meager handiwork skills to use mending broken stools and paper doors, and even tiny uniforms that snag against splintered wood. He sands those doorframes down, too. After that, it’s not long before he’s cooking all their breakfasts and sometimes dinners, wiping down the training rooms after practice, roughhousing with the kids and telling them bedtime stories at night. She initially tried to protest, but he insisted. Partly because he wanted to repay some of her kindness, but mostly because—well, he’d otherwise be stuck with the voices in his head all day and he gets plenty of that at night. He relishes the distraction.

She catches him, one day, staring off into space as he reheats a pot of porridge. He hasn’t slept in, maybe ever, but now that he’s doing more than lying in bed all day, it’s starting to wear him down. She presses her hand against his cheek and he instinctively leans into her touch, before his eyes spring open and alert. 

“Why don’t you learn with them?”

It takes him a while to find his tongue. “Martial arts?” She nods. “Think I can handle it?”

Her hand doesn’t leave his face, thumb rubbing against the raised skin of his scar. “You won’t get better if you don’t try.”

_And, Tifa?_

He owes her his life, and she’s never asked a thing of him in all the weeks he’s known her.

So for her, he tries.

*

Zack takes to martial arts well, all things considered. He’s always been fit, had to be fit, and running drills among his tiny peers gives him something new to channel all his waking energy into. He manages to flip Tifa onto her back—just once—during practice, and when she smiles up at him, eyes sparkling with pride and delight, his heart does a distracting little turn. Which allows her ample time to grab him by the ankles and pull him down, twist and suddenly she’s on top of him with a triumphant grin as the students cheer on her reversal.

“Nice form,” she compliments, sweat dripping down her brow, down her neck, trailing into the sharp lines of her collar bones and—he stirs. “You too,” he stammers, and doesn’t look her in the eye or take the hand she offers.

_And, Tifa?_

Is off limits, don’t even think about it, traitorous little brain.

The one thing he doesn’t take to is meditation, seeking silence. It breaks up their days every afternoon and Zack hates it, can’t stand it, doesn’t need more time alone with the voices in his head, thank you very much. But—Tifa insists, so he can’t really say no to that. So he goes every day. Fidgets on his cushion. Hums nervously out of habit. Taps his fingers and his toes. Sometimes, when the screaming is unbearable, he presses his palm to his mouth and sputters, which usually sends childish titters echoing in the training room.

Usually, whenever he’s misbehaving, Tifa cracks an eye open to shoot him a stern glance, but today is different. Today she looks incredibly disappointed and shame burns at Zack’s neck. She dismisses the class and asks him to stay. 

So, he stays. 

“You’re disturbing my students,” she chides, though there’s no real anger in it.

“Sorry,” he says, though there’s no real feeling in it. 

“They’ve been training too hard for the annual summer competition to be distracted by you now.”

“Sorry,” he repeats, and there’s some feeling in it now.

“Stay another hour, Zack.” 

“Huh?” 

“You won’t get _better_ if you don’t try.” Her eyes flash with some emotion, but as always it’s gone before he can fully understand it. He wonders if she knows just how bad the screaming gets in the silence of the night.

For the next hour, Zack does anything but meditate. He hums and fidgets and stares at the clock, counting down seconds, but when the door slides open and then shut behind him, he quickly settles back into a kneeling position, inclines his head to her in greeting which she returns, and there is the tiniest of smiles budding on her lips, as if she knows how hard he’s failed to remain silent for the entire duration. 

She seats herself on the cushion beside him, folding her legs neatly under her before closing her eyes and bowing her head. It’s a sign that he should follow, and he would, he means to, honest, but, well, he’s a little distracted. Tifa’s dressed in her usual uniform, starched white pants and a matching thick cotton robe pulled tight against her body, tied closed at her waist. But—she smells lightly fragranced with soap, and her hair shines lush and wet, swept off the nape of her neck and curled into a dripping bun at the top of her head. Her cheeks glows rosy and gold, like she’s just spent some time in the sauna, and unbidden, he imagines what it would be like sink his teeth into the tie of her robe and spread it loose and open before him, if the rest of her skin is as flushed and lovely, how it would taste against his hungry tongue and—he quickly derails that train of thought, bad, Zack, really bad. Off limits. She saved his life and this is the thanks she gets? He angles his body away, slowly, softly, imperceptibly, but her eyes snap open and catches him in the act. 

He smiles sheepishly and then quickly closes his eyes again, tries to steady his breathing, tries to clear his thoughts, tries—she can’t read his mind with her chakra, right? 

There’s a rustle of fabric and the padding of feet, signifying the end of Tifa’s meditation—or patience—but he staunchly keeps his eyes closed. It’s a test, it’s a trap, he knows it, knows her. Seeking silence has always been the one elusive lesson she could never instill in him, and right now he wants to make her proud or prove her wrong or at the very least get these very bad thoughts out of his head. Or something. 

But she doesn’t leave the room, instead glides on whispered feet to circle him once, twice, before settling down in front of him. He keeps his eyes shut even though he really, really wants to look at her.

And then—she’s moving, undoing the tie of his belt robe and letting cool air kiss his skin. Her fingers are light and deft on his chest, lingering against his heart, trailing down his scars, and it’s nothing new, she’s done it so many times before when treating him—except her fingers travel lower, lower, brushes against the hem of his pants. He doesn’t breathe, doesn’t move, and oh fuck she saw she _knows_ all his bad thoughts and intentions, goodbye Lockhart Dojo. 

Goodbye, home.

She pulls down the front of it and frees him. 

His eyes snap open because what is happening and Tifa’s eyes smolder back at him under long, dark lashes. She smiles, just the most casual quirk of her lips, like his very erect dick isn’t just chilling in her hands. He opens his mouth to say—what even—but she shakes her head, glances down at her hands and gives him a firm squeeze that would bring him to his knees if he wasn’t already there. And then she does it again, her grip firm but pliable as she moves, _pumps_ , a slow and languorous pace all the way up and then fully down his shaft, a building intensity that has him trembling all over. Her other hand strokes slowly over the tip of his head, thumb swiping a ripe bead of precum from his slit that she pops into her mouth and sucks and the sight nearly does him in he’s so close he groans her name aloud— 

The thumb disappears from her mouth and she looks instantly disappointed, replaces it with a forefinger over her lips. _Shhh._

And that’s it.

Her fingers shimmy into the hem of his pants to lift and fit them snugly back over his dick, still straining pathetically toward her because if she so much as breathed on him he might get that precious relief and—then she’s rising, adjusting her robe, and then leaving him aching after her as the door slides shuts with a sigh of finality. When he hears her faint footfalls fading, fading, he curls into a ball and screams silently into his hands.

*

Zack spends far too long in the shower after that, desperately rubbing himself to a completion that spills all over the wooden tiles and down the drain along with tepid soapy water. Even twice isn’t the relief he’s chasing, the burning warmth of her hand, calloused in all the right places where his feel blunt and wrong, the way her finger slid over his head and—fuck. He bites on his thumb as he comes a third time and his skin is raw and wretched and aching as he shuts off the water with a hiss.

If he was a little less strung up he might notice that the voices raging in his head that night are ever so faintly dimmer. But from out of the inferno rises a pair of luscious pink lips mouthing, _Shhh._

*

He doesn’t get any sleep. Or he does, but doesn’t feel rested. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. He wakes up hard and stays that way, tries to exhaust his dick to a shriveled death by overworking himself during the warmups. It doesn’t work but he does strain his back enough that he’s made to lie in the corner, a huddled pathetic heap, during meditation. Which would actually be fine because kneeling in their meditation stance is hell on his ankles, but from this corner, that Tifa ordered him into mind, he has a really good view of her face as she closes her eyes and leads the kids into their breathing exercises, mouth puckering in an exhale. Her skin is damp and slick with sweat from running around with the kids during their drills and it dribbles along those sharp collar bones he would gladly cut himself on.

Hell, this is hell, and still no way to think about the person who probably saved his life except she kind of started it. Maybe. He doesn’t even know anymore he’s suddenly a literal mess like a wound up teenager for fucks sake. But one second he’s imagining licking her neck clean and the next there’s a warm pressure on his hip. He blinks his eyes open to Tifa’s impassive stare. 

“Good morning,” she drawls, which is followed by a scattering of giggles and murmurs from the students. 

“Uh,” he says, glancing at her bare foot on his hip because her delicate little toes are really, very, close to his newly energetic erection. Boy, oh boy. 

“You were snoring.” 

“S-sorry.”

“Ooooh, Zack’s in trouble again,” Denzel snickers, only to be shushed by Marlene, who hisses, “We should still be meditating, too.” 

“You kids have done a great job. Let’s take a quick break before starting round two of training drills.” 

“Yes, Master Lockhart!” There’s a stampede of tiny bare feet all scrambling to get out into the sunlight, though a few pause to throw looks of pity Zack’s way. 

“Tifa—” 

“Another hour of meditation.” Her tone is clipped and her arms crossed under her chest, pushing her breasts together so that a sliver of cleavage escapes the top of her robes. He’s staring, blinks and veers his gaze onto her face and knows that she knows he’s been staring. “Make it two.”

*

When there’s five minutes left of his silent torment, the door rattles and Zack quickly shuts his eyes and evens out his breath. Maybe she’ll buy it, this time. His dick had finally calmed down without her lingering presence in the room, but lo and behold it comes searing to attention when the door shuts and her familiar footfalls echo around him. He rolls his body to face the wall opposite the door and breathes in and out, in and out and—squeaks when her foot lands on his hip to gently roll him onto his back again. He shouldn’t open his eyes, twice a fool shame on him, but he does and she’s standing above him, stepping into the space between his legs, lowering herself to kneel. Her hair is shiny and damp and drips onto the front of his pants.

“If you make any noise, they’ll hear you,” she murmurs, and as if on cue the kids start counting their drills in the yard on the other side of the wall, _one, two, three_ and her hands are loosening his robe and tugging down his pants and his dick sings into her hand, ready and needy, but it’s not too much longer until she bends down and—the tip of her tongue runs delicately along the slit of his head. His skin is still raw and chafing, but her warmth is a slick balm and he shudders with pleasure as she circles the ridge of his head, the cleft, engulfs it whole while trailing lazy licks along the top of his shaft. 

It’s so much better than his hands in the shower, even impossibly better than the memory of hers. He arches into her as she takes her time taking him in, twitches and jerks because it’s so much too much not enough, so when she gags in surprise he’s both overwhelmed and apologetic, tries to retreat so she can recover, but she chases him down, inhales him and she’s pulsing wet, hot, _fuck_ he’s almost fully engulfed and then her hand slides against his balls, ensare the rest of him and he feels her chakra like sunbursts on the backs of his eyelids as she pumps her hand to the same agonizing pace of her tight mouth, but what finally does him fully in when she hollows out her cheeks and _sucks_ —he bites down hard on his bottom lip as he spills and spills and she swallows all around him. She presses her lips flat into his skin and thoroughly cleans his not so quickly shriveling shaft, rounds them around his head and makes a delightful pop on release. There’s a bit of white in the corner of her mouth that she thumbs into her lips and he exhales shakily, boneless, light. 

She sits back onto her legs, still between his, and glances at the clock on the wall. Exactly five minutes and not a second more. “See?” she asks in a breathless flutter, skin flushed and robes askew. “The silence is nothing to be afraid of.” 

He doesn’t trust himself so speak so he doesn’t, even as she gently adjusts his slacks and ties his robe neatly back up. She rises, glances down at him, and something flashes quickly in her eyes before just as quickly passing, as always, bids him a casual goodnight and steps over him for the door.

There are no voices in his dreams that night, no cries, no hiss of metal or clank of steel. Just the slow, haunting squelch of searing hot lips pressing all over him. He wakes, comes with a cry and a curse, even though every fiber of his being still thrums with need. 

He’s so distracted he doesn’t even notice his back feels better.

*

And that’s how he wakes for the rest of the week. As the competition draws closer, the drills get longer and training gets harder, but still they meditate daily, because it's good for focus and discipline and something or other honestly Zack can’t pay attention to her opening preamble anymore without staring at her lips and getting all wound up and hopeful, only to be disappointed when the hour is through and Tifa claps her hands and dismisses them all without so much as a pointed look in his direction. He’s feeling so desperately out of sorts one day that he even tries to sputter into his hand again, but the noise falls pitifully flat when the kids don’t make a single peep. Tifa’s only reaction is a pointed eyebrow in his direction which makes him almost shrivel up. Or okay fine get harder, whatever, he doesn’t have a problem.

Okay, she is his problem.

The morning of the competition there’s a knock at his door bright and early and Zack hisses, wads up his sheets and his ruined boxers _yet again_ , and tosses it into in the corner of his bedroom before slipping into a pair of sweats and answering. It’s Tifa. Of course it is.

“Hey…” 

She sweeps her eyes over his room before landing on his disheveled form, his rumpled pants and bare chest, his hopefully adorable bedhead. Stop it, brain. “For the competition today…I think you should stay behind,” Tifa says slowly and Zack’s face falls. 

“Why?” 

Her eyebrows knit with concern and, at the very least, her hesitation here doesn’t seem to have been an easy decision to make. Not like, you know, deciding to give him a blow job that completely wrecked him to kingdom come. “You’re distracted.” How is that _his_ fault? “I’m worried you’ll pull focus, and my students have worked too hard to get to this point.” Her eyes land on his balled up sheets on the floor and his ears burn. “You lack—discipline.” 

She’s not wrong there. His eyes are already zoning out because she’s sweeping the hair away from her face and exposing her long neck and those jutting collarbones and when he tries to snap out of that and focus on her words all he sees is her mouth puckering and— 

“Zack?” 

He snaps out of it. “Yeah, I’ll stay.” 

“You should…” she hesitates again, and toys with the ends of her hair with her fingers _wrapping around his_ — “Meditate today. Really seek silence.” Her lips quirk into a funny little shape that almost looks like a— “After you do your laundry.” It’s absolutely a smirk, the audacity of this woman. 

“Okay,” he agrees quickly, if to simply get her out the door. She blinks as if she wasn’t expecting it to be so easy, but then tilts her head a bit and smiles wide and warm and it stirs another part of his body he hadn’t really been expecting. He closes the door behind her and smacks his fist against his chest because his stupid, traitorous heart keeps hammering away.

*

He doesn’t _want_ to seek silence, but the Lockhart Dojo is so empty, so quiet without all his kids running and giggling about. He does his laundry, takes a long shower, and then, with nothing else to do—he cleans all the training rooms from top to bottom, whistling the entire time as he works, gets on his hands and knees and scrubs till it shines, because the last thing he wants to do is sit still and let the voices or Tifa’s mouth battle over his brain because he’s not sure which will win out or which he prefers.

Except, just kidding, he knows exactly what he prefers so he crawls his ass into the meditation room and feels his slacks tighten and sighs. He’s distracted, she said. He lacks discipline, she said. Really seek silence, she said. And then she smiled and then—there goes his heart again, but the sound is still more comforting than the silence so he sits with it, breathes with it, almost manages to tamp it down long enough to really hear nothing, blissful nothing. And then there’s a sound like a door sliding open and his response is immediate and visceral and for what reason is his brain tormenting him?

Except. He opens his eyes and Tifa is standing before him in a robe that looks to be made of crepe paper it’s so thin, and just barely skims the tops of her thighs, supple legs that go on for miles, long and lean and completely bare. Her nipples are a hard outline pressed tight against the fabric and he _throbs_. Why is she here and why is she doing this to him. He doesn’t ask, though, doesn’t even breathe and she smiles as she walks over, kneels on the cushion across from him.

“Marlene won,” she says by way of greeting. “Most of them won. They’re celebrating in town now.”

“So why are you here?” His tone is more accusatory than he’d like, than is fair, but she shrugs and takes it in stride.

“I don’t have to worry about them, but you—”

“Lack discipline?” 

“Lack discipline,” she repeats with a nod, before her forehead wrinkles and words bubble out from her lips. “You’re headstrong, and your body’s rarely failed you, so you act before you think and keep pushing yourself to every limit because you can’t sit still and _have to keep going for everyone’s sake but your own_. And that leaves you open to being taken advantage of, bruises and bones and body and all, and you keep doing it because deep inside you don’t actually think you’re worth caring for. Or worth saving.” The last part is said faintly, a soft afterthought. And, okay, he was not expecting that. “But you can’t get better—you can’t _live_ like that. You can’t rush into every decision and expect to survive by sheer chance.” Her words have more fire in them than he’s ever heard and she must hear it too because she inhales, exhales, speaks again, calmly. “So. Discipline. And self control.”

He nods dumbly, transfixed by the way she’s sitting back on her ankles and parting her knees, spreading herself before him and he catches just a hint of slick pink flesh before her fingers lower and— “Watch and learn.” 

Her hand covers everything but ash brown curls, pinky finger extended out, daintily, gracefully, even as her middle finger circles around her clit in a steady rhythm that perfectly keeps time with the rise and fall of her chest, with every breath. He watches her add another finger, and then a third, and as her breath hitches her pattern becomes faster, frantic, until she’s suddenly knuckle deep inside herself and the sound of it is slick and wet and relentless. She throws her head back and he sees her thigh muscles clench as she struggles to keep herself upright and not lose her position or her pace, her other hand moving to palm her breasts, rolling her nipple between her fingers and that robe doesn’t stand a chance it comes loose and her breasts bounce full and free, the skin of her areolas dusky pink and absolutely maddening. And yet she remains silent, even as her eyelashes flutter and her mouth parts, ecstasy so clear on her face and he’s hypnotized by her, eyes glazing over every glorious inch of skin he’s straining so painfully against his pants, heart hammering in his throat, and then her arm shifts and he sees a long jagged scar running across the top of her abdomen toward the skin where her breasts meet and he— 

Still wants her with every fiber of his being but he’s starting to see clearer now, with less distraction, less _noise_ , because while there’s pure pleasure in her every stroke and every pump and every sigh, there’s also so much pain. He doesn’t know the details, he asked and it was the only thing she never deigned to answer, but he can see the pieces she’s kept locked up in silence click together, a woman alone, inheriting a dojo, taking in orphans and strangers to save them the way no one ever tried to save her. Sees the discipline and self control as a mechanism for survival, self preservation, and it’s made her stronger and wiser and able to give so much of herself. 

But it’s also made her harder in the way she entrusts herself to nothing and no one else, not her pleasure or pain, nothing can be shared because she only knows how to _give_ bruises and bones and body and all. She doesn’t know how to receive or expect—she won’t even allow herself to speak her desires into existence. 

She’s writhing in front of him, so close yet so far, and though he’s dreamed extensively of pounding into her so hard it makes her scream his name out of horny spite—suddenly, all he wants to do is hold her, wrap her in his arms and tell her she’s okay, she’s worth caring for worth _everything_ , wants to make her silly, romantic promises that he’ll spend the rest of his life trying to keep. 

But she wouldn’t let him, not right now, she’d leave him aching and wanting all over again so instead he wets his dry lips and manages, “You said I won’t get better if I don’t try.”

She spares him a glance under hooded eyes and nods, once, lips curling in satisfaction of a lesson well learned and well received, still in control even as her fingers work frantically toward her inevitable, wanton release that will come only when she allows it. But instead of fumbling silently for his own pleasure, he takes her by the ankles and releases them from under her thighs, rubs the circulation into them and presses lips against her jutting bone. She nearly falls backward from the shock, from the change of position, but he catches her by the small of her back to lay her gently against the floor. 

She shoots him a questioning glance and he takes the opportunity to nose her hand off her chest, trails reverent kisses from the bottom of her raised, scarred skin to the very tip top. Her breasts glisten with exertion and her nipples are red and overworked, sensitive and needy and he recognizes it, runs his tongue flat over it, mimics the gentleness of her tongue on his raw and aching dick and tries to match it tenfold, twentyfold, laves her all over and around until she arches her back with a gasp and he moves onto the other nipple. He feels her heart beating violently inside her chest, thrumming against his cheek, and her fingers are absolutely drenched where still she works herself, where it grazes the skin of his waist under his rucked up robe and he—wants to be a part of it wants to be a part of her pleasure, pain, everything, so he travels lower and removes her hand from her lower lips and when she tries to scream in silent fury, he slips her fingers into his mouth and sucks them clean. 

A whimper, faint and soft and delicate, a breathy little wisp that dies in her throat as soon as it begins but it’s like a siren song in the silence, knocks him over with fervent desire, a ragged need to hear it again, to hear her singing her pleasure for the world to hear, for him alone, so he dives in, runs his tongue over her swollen clit and tastes, laps up every heady heavenly inch, traces each fold with the tip of his tongue until her thighs are quivering, clenching around his face and who needs breath when he’s in heaven, so he buries his nose in her curls and follows with one finger, sinking slick, overcome with her pulsing warmth and she lets out a soft whine, nearly there, so he slips in a second finger in and then a third because he knows she can take it, starts pumping faster and faster as his tongue drowns selfishly on her clit, and he can feel her breaking, bucking as she gasps, trembles, tries to retreat but he chases her until she has no choice but to thrust into his mouth, fucking his face as he fucks her with his fingers and his tongue and everything he can offer and when he curls deep into her quivering bundle of nerves she comes with a loud keen that breaks into a weeping shudder. 

She presses her squirming thighs together because he’s still trying to eat her up, devour her whole, he can’t ever get enough but then she’s pulling him up by the front of his robes so that he’s lying on top of her, and though his once forgotten dick throbs hard against her thigh, it can wait, he can wait, because more than anything he wants to kiss her so he does and his face is still wet with her but she doesn’t care, kisses him back with bruising lips, hands tangling and tugging into his hair, and when he moans with pleasure against her lips, she doesn’t deny him, angles her hips so his dick presses firmly against her center, drenching the front of his pants and he thrusts in an vain attempt to be closer, and closer still. They break apart and her lips are so shiny and swollen and when he asks his silent, desperate question, she answers by fumbling for his pants to free him, presses the tip of him into her overwhelming wetness and he shudders, rubs his head over her clit again and again until her impatient hands are angling him right over her slit and they both gasp when he fully, finally, sinks into her, every blessed inch coated and he’s falling, he is—

Not gonna last how embarrassing, but how could he, she’s too much she’s everything, a supernova of sensation brighter than the sun, she makes his knees weak and mind run empty and all he wants to do is drag himself back—and slam into her, burn his skin messy and desperate where they meet, again and again as she sings into his ear, and he’s maybe not as surprised as he should be when wetness pools at his eyes as he chants her name, screams it into her shoulder as he comes undone, pulls out to spill thick and hot all over the floor. Her hand strokes him lazily until he’s fully spent, fast fading, and then he loses all strength and collapses on top of her, burrows his face into her collarbones as she rubs gentle circles over his back. 

He eventually, ruefully, rolls off her because she could kick his ass six ways to Sunday but she’s still so small and gasping for breath beneath him. He realizes he’s rolled the wrong way only when he feels his own cum sticky and cool against his calves. “I just washed these floors,” he huffs, swiping it off with his fingers and Tifa laughs, guides them into her mouth, licking them clean. 

“Guess you’re washing them again.” Her eyes sparkle and her smile is wide and warm in the waxing sunlight and dear god how that other part of him, his floppy little heart croons. “But later. After a nap,” she commands drowsily, but doesn’t release his hand, simply curls her fingers over his and brings them to rest in the space between their bodies, tugs him closer so her thigh presses neatly against his. A matching smile spreads unbidden over his lips because yes, he will, they will, he’ll promise her anything she wants and spend the rest of his life trying to keep it, if she’ll have him. “And next time, aim for me.” 

He groans as his dick sears back to life and her wicked little fingers are already upon him.

**Author's Note:**

> I’m still mildly terrified that this is just awful cringe bad smut (in addition to the actual story bits left dangling because I couldn’t bother editing anymore ahaha) & that people around me are far too kind to say so—but I’m coming around to just being grateful for their support. Thank you sweet friends. ♥
> 
> But hey, if this did suck here’s a list of people you can blame for this instead of me YOLO: [dreamfighter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamfighter/), [tinyangl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinyangl/), [calytrix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/calytrix/), [potatovangogh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PotatoVanGogh/), [bouncymouse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bouncymouse), [szjanie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Szajnie), [scribbleness](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scribbleness), tsu & ofc VOA. *cactaur sprints the fuck outta here*
> 
> ~~NINE, THE ANSWER IS APPARENTLY NINE WONDERFUL ENABLING HORNY JERKS ilu all.~~


End file.
